


art

by DearTheodosia (DapperMuffin)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Henry Laurens' A+ Parenting, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, John is an artist, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Pre-Slash, but im not being sarcastic this time :D, hi cap!!, other characters mentioned but not directly appearing, um i cant think if theres anything else i should tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:15:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27998865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DapperMuffin/pseuds/DearTheodosia
Summary: John's art is very personal and he's only shown it to a few people. One day he leaves his sketchbook at school, and he wakes up to hundreds of notifications.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 5
Kudos: 62





	art

**Author's Note:**

  * For [capririusMage_lollipop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capririusMage_lollipop/gifts).



> i havent read this since i wrote it today and also i 100% gave up on the title

John loves drawing.

He hasn't always been an artist. He'd been ten when he'd first started.

John had looked around his room, bored out of his mind. He'd picked up a pencil, considered it for a moment, and had put it to paper.

John's first drawing hadn't been amazing by any means. He's no prodigy, and while he sometimes thinks his art looks good, that's due solely to practice and work.

Art is the one thing John has. He knows Alex feels the same about his writing. It's their one escape, their one method of true self-expression.

That's why John doesn't show his art to many people. It's a private thing, and if he chooses to show it to someone, it's a compliment.

His sketchbook means a lot to him, it carries with it a sense of safety and a sense of comfort.

Which is why John, understandably, has a panic attack when he realizes it isn't in his bag, he must have left it at school, he has to go now before someone takes it—

He runs into his father in the hall.

"Jack, what are you doing?" Henry asks.

"I left my sketchbook at school, I can't—I have to go get it—"

Henry's hands grip his shoulders. "Jack, you're hyperventilating, can you focus on breathing with me?" John nods as tears prick the corners of his eyes. He takes a few shuddering breaths, and Henry's arms wrap around him, and he leans into his father's hug to steady himself. "It's after four, the school gates will be locked by now. You won't be able to get in until tomorrow, so there's no point rushing off to get it now. It will be there tomorrow." That makes sense, and John forces himself to think about this. He always throws himself into things before thinking them through, and his father is right, his sketchbook will be there tomorrow.

He goes to bed early, tired out from the stress of his sketchbook going missing. Normally he'd sketch a bit before bed, but today that's not an option. His dreams are chaotic, although he doesn't remember them in the morning, and his sleep is fitful.

* * *

John wakes at half past six to the incessant buzzing of his phone. He sighs, sitting up slowly. He picks up his phone, peering groggily at it.

His brain catches up to his body, and his eyes widen.

There's a message each from Laf and Herc, two from Eliza, and... nine from Alex. Something's wrong, and in his haste, John mistypes his passcode three times before he manages to unlock his phone.

John reads Eliza's message first. Whatever's happened, the way she'd tell him is the least likely to send him spiraling into another panic attack.

_John, someone's posting pictures of drawings with your signature on them, and they're saying horrible things about you and about the art, and I think maybe you should stay off social media for a day or two, because I don't want you to have to see it. I've reported a few of the posts, but the staff aren't doing anything to take them down._

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Laf's and Herc's messages say about the same, albeit less eloquently, and with shaking hands, John moves to view Alex's messages.

**alex_xela** : john

**alex_xela** : holy fuck

**alex_xela** : dude are you ok

**alex_xela** : have you seen the shit he's saying about you

**alex_xela** : can i fight him i hate this

**alex_xela** : no the little "you" voice in my head is right i don't need to get in trouble for this

**alex_xela** : seriously are you okay is there anything i can do other than fighting him in his dms

**alex_xela** : im guessing youre still asleep so i hope you can sleep for a little while longer before you have to see any of this shit

**alex_xela** : sorry this happened to you

The last message is timestamped at 5:37, and John wonders for a moment why Alex was awake so early.

Despite what Eliza had advised him to do, John's morbid curiosity wins, and he flips over to his maxed-out notifications. Scrolling down, he sees that most of them are posts tagged with his username, and he hates himself as he opens one of the posts.

He's greeted with a picture of one of his sketches. He remembers this one. There was one time last year when he'd been reading about dolphins in Marine Bio, and he'd started idly doodling a dolphin, only to realize it was kind of good.

The caption reads, _What a dorky thing to draw. Fun fact, "dork" is another word for a whale dick, and that makes sense, because he's a fag. @jlaur what a loser_

The post was created by @sambury, and it has around thirty likes.

John knows going to school today is only going to be hell, but he forces himself upright. He goes through the motions of breakfast and getting ready with all the energy and the pace of a sloth. It's all he can do to stay numb, because if he doesn't, he's going to start sobbing, and he doesn't need that today.

Henry drops John off at the high school first, and Martha gives John a worried look he promptly ignores as he gets out of the car. His nails dig into his palms. He's gone into fight or flight mode, and he's got to make his choice.

John deliberately pulls back into himself, letting his hair curtain his face, a welcome hiding place. It won't do much if someone recognizes him, but it brings relief, however short-lived it might be.

For he stops just inside the open front doors. Other students bump his shoulders and mutter swears at him, but he can't.

He slowly glances around, and everything he sees makes him want to die.

Those are his drawings pinned all over the walls. Poor-quality photocopies, in fact, and yet John feels frozen in place.

Fight or flight? Fight or flight?

Flight.

John flees the building, he has to get away, but Henry's car has already driven off, and he stifles a sob that's threatening to escape. He blinks back tears, what should he do? Where does he go?

He decides to leave. He'll walk home.

He hears a voice behind him calling his name, but he doesn't stop, he doesn't know who it was, a friend or a foe, but he doesn't care, all he cares about is getting away from there.

John finds himself back at home, but he can't go inside, his father would be disappointed. No, that's not true at all, John is disappointed in himself and projecting that onto others.

So he takes a detour. His feet take him to the garden, and he drops to his knees next to the old oak tree.

"Hey, mom," he whispers, shoulders shaking. He doesn't turn his head to look slightly to the left, but he knows what he'd find if he did.

_Eleanor Ball Laurens_

_1980-2014_

_A wonderful mother and a wonderful wife_

"What would you tell me if you were alive now, huh?" John asks, both to himself and to no one. He's not deluded, he doesn't think his mother can hear him in the afterlife, but... sometimes it's nice to have someone to talk to. "You'd probably comfort me but scold me for not responding to my friends. You thought friends were important." He takes out his phone. There's a few more messages from Alex.

**alex_xela** : have you seen what he did to the school

**alex_xela** : im sorry

**alex_xela** : john, peggy said you ran away are you skipping school today

**alex_xela** : thats fine if you are i think you have a good enough excuse but are you okay

**alex_xela** : dude?

Alex's messages always make John smile, even now. He feels a little less fucked up, and he's able to breathe. The dizziness fades a little.

_sorry_ , he says to Alex, who responds instantly. (Shouldn't class have started by now?)

**alex_xela** : what for

**alex_xela** : i mean you have nothing to apologize for

**Turtle Boy** : oh

 **Turtle Boy** : sorry

 **alex_xela** : what did i just say??

 **Turtle Boy** : sorry

 **Turtle Boy** : shit

 **alex_xela** : are you doing that on purpose

 **Turtle Boy** : im not

 **Turtle Boy** : holy shit

 **alex_xela** : ok

John apologizes too much.

 **alex_xela** : im gonna fight him

 **Turtle Boy** : alex no

 **alex_xela** : alex yes

 **alex_xela** : samuel shitbury needs to get what he deserves

 **Turtle Boy** : yes but i dont think fighting him is the way to do it

 **alex_xela** : how'd he get ahold of ur art anyway

John's relieved that Alex isn't making a big deal over John being an artist.

 **Turtle Boy** : i left my sketchbook at school yesterday

 **Turtle Boy** : he must have taken it

 **alex_xela** : that british fuck

 **Turtle Boy** : alex thats borderline xenophobic

 **alex_xela** : look i dont hate ALL british people

 **alex_xela** : i just hate him

 **alex_xela** : look pleeeease can i fight him

 **Turtle Boy** : i,, guess

 **Turtle Boy** : but that's on you if you get punished for it

 **alex_xela** : deal

 **Turtle Boy** : promise you'll be careful

 **alex_xela** : no can do

Alex logs off, and John rests his head against the tree. He decides to check his notifications again, if only to clear them, and as he does, he notices that some of the posts he's been tagged in aren't from @sambury.

For example, @angelicas wrote a post in John's favor. She's ripped Seabury a new one, admonished people who still use slurs, and defended John and his art all in one go. And @adotburr has made it very clear he does not care either way, but he thinks that someone who'd do something like this needs to receive some kind of repercussions from the school. People are on John's side, and it's such a foreign feeling. His eyes fill with tears again, but this time, it's tears of gratitude.

Henry finds John in the garden at half past noon, and John tells him what's happened, sounding much more stable than he feels. 

Henry looks at John with an expression John can't read. (He seems sad.) "Jack, I feel guilty for keeping you from retrieving your sketchbook. What I should have done was march up to the front desk myself and demand they find it and bring it to me."

"That's not your fault—" John starts to say, but Henry hugs him again, and John goes limp. His father is often busy with work, meaning that he doesn't pay as much attention to his kids as a single father should, but John can't call him a _bad_ father. Even if he's busy, he does try, and he makes as much time for them as he can, even if that's one night a month to watch a movie together or play a board game. And it occurs to John that maybe it's the fact they're right next to his mother's grave, but Henry seems a lot less stiff than usual.

Henry breaks the hug, hands on John's shoulders as he looks at his son. "I'm going to talk to your principal about what this boy did. Samuel Seabury, right?" John nods, and Henry squares his shoulders. "He can't be allowed to get away with this." Henry jogs back to the house, and John watches him go with incredibly mixed emotions.

John hears his father return from picking up his siblings at around three o'clock, but nobody comes out to talk to him. Maybe that's for the best, because he's blatantly ignoring the events of the morning, and they'd only want to ask him about it.

It's kind of cold, and the wind has kicked up. John's arms are covered in goosebumps, but still he doesn't go inside. The garden is his sanctuary, and his room will only be a dull reminder of his torment. He buttons his flannel up over his t-shirt, and he ties his hair back into a bun to keep it from tangling, and he stays resolutely on the ground next to the tree and next to the gravestone.

John faintly thinks he hears his name, and when he looks up, Alex is there. Alex has pulled his hands up into his sleeves, giving him sweatshirt paws, and even though he's visibly shivering, he seems determined to reach the old oak tree.

"What are you doing here?" John calls to him, and Alex frowns. He clearly can't hear John, and so John just shrugs in response. He waits for Alex to cross the lawn, and when Alex is a few feet away, he tries again. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," Alex says, as though that should be obvious. "I wanted to make sure you're okay."

"Oh." There's a spot on Alex's cheek that looks suspiciously like he'd been smacked with something. "I'm okay, I guess."

"John," Alex says, and John looks away. "I know you're not okay, and that's okay." He makes a face at his own phrasing. "Anyway." He pulls his arms further into his sweatshirt and holds something out to John that he must have been keeping in his sweatshirt. "Here."

"You got back my sketchbook?" John says.

Alex smiles. "Take it." John nods, doing as he's been told. "I might have had a look through it, but just to make sure it wasn't damaged." Alex shivers, looking decidedly _not_ at John.

"Thanks." John pulls his sketchbook close to his chest, it's safe again, he has it back, everything's okay. Even if there's a bunch of homophobic posts on Twitter about him, John has his sketchbook, so it's gonna be okay. "Did you... fight Seabury for this?"

 _"Maybe,"_ Alex says noncommittally, drawing out the M. "Okay, okay, only a little. You said I could." He eyes John as though confirming that was definitely the deal between them, and John sighs.

"I did, didn't I? Although, to be perfectly honest, I think I hoped you were _joking."_ He narrows his eyes, and Alex blushes.

"Well, I wasn't joking. I have this bruise to prove it." He gestures to his cheek. "I know your sketchbook is important to you, even if you've never mentioned it to me before." He doesn't sound bitter or annoyed, merely matter-of-fact, and John bites his lip.

"Sorry I didn't tell you," he says.

"You didn't have to tell me, it's fine," Alex says with frustrating stubbornness.

"I was embarrassed because I draw you so much," John admits. Alex's eyes light up.

"I saw those! Sorry again," he adds as an afterthought. Undeterred, he continues with just as much enthusiasm, which, either way, is too much enthusiasm for John's sketches. "John, those are fantastic! I can't draw for shit, I couldn't draw anything recognizable if my life depended on it, and here you are, drawing me realistically! Did you do those from memory?"

"Some of them," John says.

"Wow..." Alex trails off, staring at nothing for a moment, his grin soft at the edges in a way that makes John's heart ache. "Anyway, you're... you're amazing." His voice is quiet and gentle to match his smile.

"Thank you." John smiles, and Alex only smiles wider when he sees this. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" Alex asks, as though he genuinely doesn't know what he does to John.

"Like you're impressed with me?" John says instead of several much more vulnerable things he could have said in its place.

"I _am_ impressed with you," Alex says, perplexed. "Why wouldn't I be?"

John shrugs. "I dunno. Some days I don't like my art."

Alex makes a face. "I get that. Some days I feel like my writing is the best thing I've ever done, and some days I want to crumple it up and throw it into the fireplace." He shudders again from the cold, and John suddenly begins to feel it himself.

"Why don't we go inside?" he suggests, and Alex takes him up on his suggestion gratefully.

John casts one last look at the tree and at the grave before he follows Alex inside.


End file.
